


Love Stories

by ninedaysaqueen



Category: Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Het Relationship, Canonical Character Death, Childhood, Dancing, Drama, F/M, Flashback, Fluff, Kings & Queens, Mother-Son Relationship, Pre-Canon, Romance, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:11:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninedaysaqueen/pseuds/ninedaysaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten ships, ten songs, ten requests, and ten love stories. Ten drabbles dedicated to the romance of the <i>Queen's Thief</i> world. - <i>They don't have dances like this in Sounis.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Stories

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta: openedlocket**
> 
>  **Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of _The Thief, The Queen of Attolia, The King of Attolia, A Conspiracy of Kings,_ nor of any characters, locations, and elephants contained within. All rights of the _Queen's Thief_ series belong exclusively to Megan Whalen Turner and her respective publishers.**
> 
>  **Author's Notes: Written for styromgalleries, openedlocket, tiegirl, bookishbabe, theorangethief, elle_winters, amolegere, and Annalibelle.**
> 
>  **Thanks to freenarnian for the roof dancing idea!**
> 
>  **Enjoy!**

**#1:[Song for a Young Queen](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krf5qQq9bNY) by Chris Thile - (Magus/Helen)**

It reminds him of harvest--the motion of the dancers feet. How their steps follow the paths between the fields of hay, only for the ladies skirts to twirl across the open court and trim the stalks for the autumn yield.

They don't have dances like this in Sounis.

The magus sighs and twirls his goblet in his fingers, wondering why he stands on the edges of festivities that only bring unhappy thoughts and regrets. He glances at the throne. The queen of Eddis appears to be absent, likely dragged away to some emergency meeting concerning the approaching war.

He shouldn't be here.

“Magus?”

Jolted from his revery, he turns at the voice of the queen, wondering if he's gotten so old as to not hear footsteps approaching him from behind.

“Apologies for startling you, sir.” The queen smiles charmingly and comes to stand beside him. “You seemed lost in thought, and I assume a scholar such as yourself has seen mountain dances before... So... tell me.” She tilts her head to the side to peer into his face. “Something on your mind?”

The magus sighs but smiles weakly. “Nothing much. Just the usual thoughts and worries whirling about.”

“I see...” she consolidates but does not shy from the heart of the matter. “We are all scared for him, but we mustn't lose hope that he is still alive.”

“I know,” the magus agrees quietly.

They stand silent for a moment, watching the court of Eddis clasps hands, twirl, and switch partners down the dancing line, always confident that the hand they reached for would be right where they left it. He wishes life were so certain.

“I have an idea,” the queen says abruptly and links her arm with his. “You look like you could use some fun.”

The magus is surprised and barely has time to set his goblet down on a nearby table before he is dragged into the dance line; the queen across from him.

He has watched the mountain dances enough to be able to participate without tripping over his own shoes, but he is more concerned about the presumption of dancing with the Eddisian queen as a foreigner and an enemy of the kingdom. He is surprised, once again, when no one appears upset or shocked by his actions, and he even detects a hint of a smile from several of the ladies.

That was unexpected.

He has little time to ponder this as the exhilarating mountain tune speeds up and forces the dancers to match the new pace. He grasps Helen's hand in a rushed spin that leaves them both breathless, only to switch partners and repeat the motion. No wonder they don't have dances like this on Sounis. They'd be exhausted before a single song was finished.

The music drives to a crescendo, and the dancers spin faster and faster, struggling to keep time without crashing into their partner or losing pace when suddenly...

The music stops.

He stands, frozen in mid-spin; Helen's hand still clasped in his own, staring into her eyes as unwavering as she stares into his.

It only lasts for a moment.

They step away quickly, both thanking the other for the dance in rushed, nervous tones. She bids him goodnight and returns to her throne.

He leaves the dancing floor in a rush, avoiding the puzzled stares of her court.

This wasn't suppose to happen.

It was never _suppose_ to be him.

He really, _really_ shouldn't be here.

 

 **#2:[A Moment Changes Everything](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gf0oU8rmRAI) by David Gray - (Minster of War/Gen's Mom)**

He could point to the exact moment as easily as he could stick a pin in a cushion. That was to say, he could recall perfectly the moment it all changed. When she went from the daughter of the Thief he knew in passing--a symbol of archaic, undignified tradition and unrelenting irritation... to what she came to be.

And she came to be a lot...

 

 _“Excuse me?”_

 _She taps him on the shoulder. He doesn't shift._

 _He is on duty near the stable gates that lead out into the main courtyard, the pavement stones dusted with a light snow. The cold of early winter creeps under his armor to crust and chill and make a general nuisance of itself. He stoically refuses to answer her._

 _“Excuse me?” she taps his shoulder again, reaching up to stand on tip-toe. She is very small. “Is it your intention to scare away potential intruders with the sheer terror of your expression, or do you just look that way all the time?”_

 _He fails to stifle a snort._

 _She grins at him coyly, thinking herself clever._

 _She pokes him again; her small fingers finding gaps in his armor along his chest and shoulders. He likens her to a small child or a preening bird begging for attention._

 _He finally gives in._

 _“There wouldn't be anything I could assist you with, my lady? Decorum, manners, maturity?”_

 _“Oww...” she brings her hands together like a young girl thrilled by a treat. “He can speak! Alert the temple soothsayers! It's just as they predicted!”_

 _He glares heatedly, ignoring her despite the obvious futility of the endeavor._

 _She is clearly amused that he won't rise to her taunts. “Would you be interested in hearing what the ladies think of you, sir?”_

 _“No...” he drawls, “but you're still going to tell me.”_

 _She smiles. “They say you're a little tough and a little surly...”_

 _He sets his jaw._

 _The corners of her mouth turn up and her eyes sparkle. “But they also say you have admirable character and are quite sweet at the center.”_

 _Despite the cold, he feels a heat rise on his checks._

 _She beams impishly. Shifting her hips back in forth as if in a dance, she turns elegantly on her heels and leaves him in the snow._

 

Years later... he looks back on that moment in the courtyard. The same courtyard he found and lost her. He wishes he'd told her sooner. Before the fall, the nightmare, the destiny she'd long accepted as fate, and he continues to fight as a curse.

His son ripped up his enrollment papers today.

He doesn't know what to say.

That was always her job. The words, the thoughts, the right articulation of sounds and language to sooth pain and ease past bitter anger and wounded pride.

He was always very proud. His son is too.

He is a man of few words, but there are many words he'd wished he'd said. Many words he'd wished she'd known in more solid form than a twinkle of the eye, a light touch on the shoulder, or smile as she squeezed his hand.

 _If wishes were roses..._

That's what she would say.

 _If wishes were roses, you'd have a garden to till. Don't nurse what you could give._

She was always better with words...

Words can change a moment and a moment can change everything.

He leaves the courtyard. He needs to talk to his son.

 

 **#3:[Check Yes Juliet](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CUyWJ7UINM) by We the Kings - (any pairing)**

 _Say yes._

Eddis made it sound so simple. Take his hand, walk to the marriage altar, offer him her throne and her country, and all would be well. Forgotten. Forgiven.

It wasn't possible. Every day she would see--the hurt, the pain, and the anguish that tormented his mind even as he slept; his slumber a prison of memories. Forgiven? Perhaps. But it could never be forgotten. Just as certain that he would never wake up with his hand magically regrown, and her wrong undone. Fate was cruel in its finality.

There was a tap at her door.

“They let you in?” she asked, her tone laced with surprise. Their wedding was not for three more days, and she doubted her attendants would allow him inside her inner chambers without a pointed announcement... and a squad of guards.

“Oh, I bypassed the whole mess through the windows in the anti-chamber. Think they'll toss me off the balcony if I'm found?” She could hear his smirk.

“That...” she pauses and pretends to consider, “would send a very bad message. I'm afraid I must forbid it.”

He teasingly huffs at her sarcasm, and she wondered at his appearance.

“What do you want?” she asks.

“Can't I just come to see you?”

She raises an eyebrow at that but says nothing.

He sighs, and for a long moment they simply wait. Her, standing near the window, watching the sun set on the city. Him, leaning against the door, his hand and cuff stuffed in his jacket pockets, watching her pretend not to watch him in the window's reflective glass.

The floor was fair game.

“I thought I'd explained myself.”

She turned to face him, her gaze solemn. “You did. My memory is not so short.”

“Then why won't you look me in the eye?”

“My memory,” she repeats, “is not so short.”

 _Oh._

He stares at the floor.

Silence.

“Eugenides?” He looks up.

“Do you believe one can forgive even if it's impossible to forget?”

He cringes but gives her a half smile. “Under very special circumstances... I think it can be done.”

She meets his eyes.

“Do you want this?” he asks her, suddenly serious; his playful tone vanished like heat from a windblown brazier.

 _Say yes._

Dangle in front her nose all the hope and the trust and the faith she's long been denied, and what can she say? There is only one thing to say.

And for once she obeys the gentle voice of her heart rather then the screaming logic in her head.

 _Yes._

 

 **#4:[Only You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgWWQe57UBU) by Sinead O'Connor - (Gen/Irene)**

There was ice on the roof.

Considering he hailed from what many of his subjects would refer to as country bumpkin tree and snow land, one would assume he'd remember to compensate for the condensation that melted into dew under early sun but froze at night into small patches of slippery death.

He couldn't remember that last time he'd stumbled on a slab of ice, forgetting to steady his steps and add extra weight to his heels. He'd fallen flat on his back, cracking his head on the unforgiving metal shingles.

He held his pocket-cloth to the back as his head as he came in through her window. The fine blue silk, imported from Eddis, was now stained bright red with his blood.

He creeped quietly across the floorboards, expertly avoiding the ones he knew creaked. He grabbed a washcloth and her water pitcher from a table by the fire and poured the cool liquid across the textile, pressing it to his head. He breathed a relieved sigh.

The wound was superficial, he knew. He could easily clean up the blood himself, and hide the tell-tale bump under his hair in the morning. Having been poked by doctors all his life for being either too small or too mouthy, he had an instinctive suspicion of anyone who'd ever sworn oath to Asklepious or any such deity of healing.

He disliked the fuss. I made it harder to convince himself... That was... Harder to silence the small voices that whispered and scolded when he skirted the edges of sharp-nosed towers or walked ceiling beams no wider than the breadth of his hand. Harder to mute the noise with calming convictions and unspoken certainties.

The certainty that no one cared what happened to nameless thieves.

His queen sighed sleepily from her bed and sat up. He turned around guilty, sheepishly hiding the bloody cloth behind his back.

Irene stretched her arms above her head and rubbed her right shoulder. She would notice him as soon as her eyes adjusted to the low light of the fire.

“Eugenides,” she called. “What are you doing over there?”

He didn't answer, and furtively glanced around for something to hide behind.

Concerned by his silence, she pushed back the covers and got up, slipping on her shimmering robe as she stood.

“Eugenides,” she repeated. “What's wrong? Let me see.” She approached him, gently taking his chin in her hands to look at him better. He always had to remind himself not to flinch when she did that.

She looked around his shoulder and noticed the cloth balled in his fist behind his back. She turned his head and hissed.

“What did you do to yourself?” she asked gently, taking another washcloth and wetting it, she dabbed the bloody wound, carefully applying pressure to stop the flow. “I should call, Petrus. You may need stitches.”

Eugenides growled. “If that man ever tries to put stitches in me again, I shall impale him with something sharp and pointy. Possibly his own awl that he calls a needle.”

Irene sighed and pursed her lips. He cringed as she applied more pressure.

Her expression made him feel all of five-years-old, like a child refusing medicine because of the sour taste. “It doesn't need stitches,” he added quickly. “I just slipped and banged my head. Not the first nor the last time. It's not even bleeding that much...”

Irene tacitly held up the blood streaked cloth for him to see, before wetting it once again and dapping the back of his head.

“Alright, maybe it is bleeding a little...” he said peevishly.

“Just a little,” she agreed with the hint of a smile. “I often wonder...” she began drily, “that if your fear of the medical element is so fierce, why do you persist on injuring yourself at every available opportunity?”

He chewed his lip, barely biting back a laugh. “That isn't funny, my dear.”

“Actually, my dear...” She raised an eyebrow. “It most certainly was.” She smiled. “Hold that,” she directed, taking his left wrist and pressing his hand to the cloth-covered wound. “I'll ask Phresine to bring some purified water and bandages from the ward.”

He was about to open his mouth to object, but Irene held up a hand. “I'll tell her to say one of my attendants fell on the polished tiles. You won't have to face any doctors tonight.”

Slipping her feet (which were probably freezing by now, he thought guilty) into her fur-trimmed slippers, she walked to the door.

“Irene,” he called quietly. She turned at his voice.

“Thank you.”

She looked at him considerately for a long moment, but only smiled kindly in response. Turning, she left the room.

 

 **#5:[Haunted](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHnpUz3WlVg&feature=youtu.be) by Taylor Swift - (Gen/Irene, during _The Queen of Attolia_ )**

Shadows haunt and drown the light--a coil of dark embrace. Her eyes are hard and gleam with the fire's light. Her smile sly as the blade descends.

He knows nothing.

Except the wisp of her gown, white and soft, as it twirls and shimmers beneath the moonlight, spiraling towards darkness.

He wakes from his own screams.

The sheets are damp with sweat, and he pushes off their stifling comfort and too heavy warmth. Getting up, he pours a cup of water.

He can't hold the mug while he pours.

Settling down in his armchair, he loses himself in the dance of the flames. His mind drifting in the quiet air of night.

He is haunted.

Not by the dreams, the flash of a silver blade, or even by the fact that he can't hold his cup with both hands; he is haunted by her eyes. The harsh gleam so in contrast with bare feet streaked with damp soil, dancing till her heart broke beneath a grove of orange trees.

 

 **  
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o   
**

 

She wakes to a gentle tap on her door. Her room is dark except for the moonlight that gushes in through the tall windows.

It does not hold back the shadows.

She sits up but does not move the covers; her bones are too old for the cold of late winter.

“Your Majesty?” the voice she hears is edged with concern.

“Yes, Phresine?”

“Chloe heard you calling out a moment ago. Were you having a nightmare?”

“I was calling out?” she asks confused, and Phresine watches her gaze drift to the shadows of the room. “I didn't mean to worry you all. You may go.”

Her attendant does not budge. “I'd prefer to be alone,” the queen says, this time more forceful. The door shuts quietly.

She does not know if it's the shadows she fears or simply what resides in the corners and dark passages they hide. She only knows one thing.

She is haunted.

Not by the threat of invasion, the bleak emptiness of her throne--alone on the gilded pillow, but by a small, still voice that whispers during every waking hour and during many of her sleeping ones as well. She knows the message, even if she refuses the words.

She has no desire to listen.

There is little left in this world that can undo her--shake the foundations of power and confidence built through years of trailers, tribulations, and training. If one thing could do it. If one thing could shatter her glass form, and her eyes of fire and hate...

She stretches a hand towards the shadows. Always there, yet never to be touched. Just like her dreams; just like the voice.

She has nothing to say.

It can and will shatter her. The shadows that haunt, and the fear of what she has become.

She lays down in bed, her eyes on the moon.

The shadows will never be hers.

 

 **#6:[Battlefield](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTjgKLRg5p4) by Jordan Sparks - (Gen/Irene)**

They are at war.

In their hearts, in their minds. Churning, boiling, and pushing; pulling them towards the fall. Forged by time, suffering, and the trials of their lives, it's only fitting that it would begin this way. Beneath the city, late at night, a fire between them, surrounded by iron. Fitting... And very, very cruel.

Life is cruel.

She takes his hand as he sleeps next to her. Wisps of his dark hair cover his eyes, and she sees how sleep easies the lines that web his face during the waking hours--lines of worry, fear, and grief. She squeezes his hand, his only hand; and he stirs slightly before waking.

“Something wrong?” he speaks with the milky tones of his Eddisian accent, as he always does when he first wakes. She smiles slightly, comforted with the knowledge that his mask is not so permanent as her own.

She shakes her head and instead of speaking presses her check against the crock of his shoulder. He pulls her to him, his fingers tangling in her wavy hair.

“Clingy today, aren't we?” he asks; and she smirks, knowing he can feel the movement of her lips against his neck even if he cannot see her face.

“Are you complaining?”

“Complaining would insinuate irritation, which I don't see how that made its way into the conversation at all.”

“You're an idiot,” she mutters drily.

“Hmm...” he agrees.

They stay like that for a long moment, her breath against his neck; the tips of his fingers stroking her temple. “We'll have to get up soon,” he shatters the quiet. “Dawn breaks within the hour.”

She knows, but she does not choose to move. Moments of peace are rare for those who wage war in their hearts, against the world and against themselves. Rest is precious and so very dear when they rest in each another's arms.

The morning air is hazy with the refracted light of dawn, scattered by the heavy rain clouds--rolling and churning and boiling--the promise of a threat. Always the promise, the threshold of battle and strife. Her country's lifeblood spilled across the farm fields. She shifts in the bed, settling further under the covers.

His hold tightens slightly, and she closes her eyes in rest. Forget the dawn and the thunder. For the moment she is safe in her repose, below the canopy of her honey-colored chambers, comforted by the warmth of his hand.

A hand that tightly holds her own. And, for some reason, she thinks always will.

Life is cruel in its mechanics, the motions of battle that war in her soul. But the respite? Moments spent by low fires, spoons dipped in honey, and cold toes tucked beneath warm sheets? That... She smiles.

Is a great deal sweeter.

 

 **#7:[Crazier](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7Jw8lOdzRk) by Taylor Swift - (Gen/Irene)**

She likes to watch the birds fly.

Wings outstretched, poised towards the sun, skimming the air, flapping to freedom. Free...

She's never been free.

When she was young, she used to watch the children in the city from her balcony. She'd watch their silly dances and excited spins around the maypole, stumbling over themselves in their joy. While she watched, she dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand hidden by her long sleeves.

She used to watch the girl who is now Eddis from across the state room. As a young princess, Irene stood in the center of the mosaic floor, showcased in her country's emblem. Her nursemaids used to tell her how much prettier and more talented she was than Eddis's princess. How her features where more delicate, and how she poised herself with a finer air.

Eddis stood to the far side of the room next to the prancing hart; her hand held tightly by one of her older brothers.

It was that day Irene learned to hate.

Now the queen of Attolia, she runs her slim fingers across the decorative brickwork that arcs off her door sill like a spark. If only she could wrap her fingers around the lights of fire and power as easily as she could smother herself with gild and froth.

“You look lost in thought,” Eugenides observes from behind her. Her husband joins her outside in the spring chill.

“Simply enjoying the view,” she answers with an elegant shrug.

She not use to having a husband, and she's a little embarrassed to be caught daydreaming as opposed to working, writing, or some other task one might expect to find a queen engaged in.

She wonders if she'll ever stop being stupid.

“Are you...?” he observes cryptically, not betraying a hint of what he thinks of her. “Is is the city, the mountains, or the golden fields that interest you?”

She's noticed he enjoys these games. Poking and prodding her with vague questions till he gets a genuine answer. It should irritate her more than it does.

“All is part of my kingdom, is it not?”

“I didn't ask about your kingdom,” he responds. “I asked about you.”

She sighs; her expression resembling that of a flat line. “I was watching the birds fly. Nothing more.” She sounds surly, even to her own ears. She can't remember the last time she let herself sound surly.

He smirks, teasingly smug. “Ahh... Flight... Beautiful as it is terrifying, don't you agree?”

She narrows her eyes, and he laughs, meeting her smooth expression with a boyish grin. She smiles faintly and offers her hand.

He laces her fingers with his.

She wonders if she could ever fathom the endless pits of thought and tradition that spatter this man's soul. She wonders if she needs to.

She finds she wants to try. “Sounds like the sea or the sky... or winter in the highlands. You think I compare to all that?”

She can see the smile in his eyes. “That and more, my queen.”

 

 **#8:[So She Dances](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fue9xCGe9HA) by Josh Groban - (Gen/Irene, orange tree dancing scene)**

Eugenides was not stuck.

He was merely having a little difficulty reaching the lower branch that would allow him to shimmy down the trunk and back into the grove.

He was not stuck, he repeated to himself, feeling very stuck indeed.

He'd been waiting for his grandfather, and in his boredom, Eugenides had scrabbled up a fruit tree to pluck a sweet orb hanging heavy on its vine. Unlike the fox in his mother's stories, Eugenides could reach his sour grapes, but he still found their juices to be anything but sweet.

The door to the courtyard swung opened with a faint creak.

Knowing that he was far from a welcome visitor, Eugenides hid himself behind the leaves, assuming a position of extreme stillness.

It was a young girl, he observed, peeking his head around a nest of green. She angrily scuffed her slippers across the glossy marble pavers as if the stones had personally insulted her. Kicking off her shoes, the girl climbed hand over knee and lowered herself across the small rail that skirted the courtyard marble. The ground was damp with yesternight's rain, and her bare feet sunk into the dirt. She sighed, as if the mud were a balm to an unseen wound.

Raising her skirts, far too heavy for late spring, she began to twirl, adding a little skip to her performance every few steps. She smiled awkwardly, as if the muscles along her mouth were not used to the expression. As she spun faster, she abandoned her skirts and twirled down a line. Forming an imaginary circle, she came in and out of the dancing shape, reaching out her hands to clasps those of the sisters and friends she did not have.

Very quietly and very softly, Eugenides felt his heart break

She was dancing the harvest circle. A child's dance performed with friends and siblings in merry turns to celebrate the fruits of the year and pray for prosperity in the years to come. Eugenides plucked another orange from the tree and peeled the rind; his gaze still fixed on the figure below him. He wanted to know her name; he wanted to know who she was... He wanted to know everything.

The door opened.

This time it was an older woman, finely dressed but with the sedated colors of servitude. She called to the girl, voice pitched in fear as she said something about 'your father' and him being 'so angry.' The spirited light that Eugenides had watched shimmer, shy and delicate, from the young girl's figure went out like cold breath to a candle.

His heart broke just a little more.

Sighing, the girl raised her skirts and rushed back inside.

 

 **-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

 

The next night, after Eugenides came home to his family and to the familiar warmth of cold snow, he wandered up to the roof to where his mother would be dancing on such a clear night.

“Mother,” he called, and she stopped her twirls upon the parapet.

“Yes, dear?” she said, hopping done from her perch. Her feet bare against the stones.

“Um, could you tell me...” he began. “Why do you... Why you dance alone?”

His mother pursed her lips. “Well...” she thought for a moment, coming closer to her son and taking his shoulders in her hands. She knelt to his eye level. “It makes me feel... Oh, how should I put this? Free. It makes me feel free.”

Eugenides considered this for a moment. “Do you... Do you think...” His mother raised her eyebrows. “That I could dance with you sometimes?”

She smiled, broad and bright. Eugenides often wondered if she hid the very sun in that smile. Taking his hands tightly in her own, she pulled him to the parapet, instructing him to remove his own shoes. Together they danced with only the music of the stars to guide them.

Eugenides didn't have to dance alone.

For the rest of his life, Eugenides knew he would remember that girl--a lone figure in a vast sea of empty, a spark in a land void of flame.

If no one else would dance with her... Well... Let's just say... When he was older, when he was the Thief...

He planned to do something about it.

 

 **#9:[She's a Lady](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCZqut9T2jo) by Forever the Sickest Kids - (Gen/Irene)**

“Were you planning on telling me?”

He'd been sneaking in through the closed chamber doors, quiet and soft, hoping he'd find her asleep. She looked far from tired.

Shutting the door behind him, Eugenides leaned against the solid wood. There were many things he could say that might sooth her anger, cull the blade, chill the fire, but all of them would be insincere.

His queen was reclined in her desk chair, her elbows pressed into her writing parchment. If he followed the delicate drape of her dress to her interlocked fingers, he could see that her fists were clenched, fingernails tightly pressed into her palms. The pulsating light of her writing lamp told him nothing more.

When he finally spoke, his voice sounded weak even to his ears. “I was mostly hoping you wouldn't find out.”

She snorts, none too delicately. “That's your story, isn't it? Put yourself at such great risks and hope no one who cares about you will find out and stop you?” She hangs her shoulders, looking away. “Sometimes I don't think you know the difference between enemies and friend, Eugenides.”

He shrugs. They remain reticent.

“If I did...” he begins gently, “would I have married you?”

Her head turns sharply, her eyes a pinning light. “And if you had not married me would you be in such situations? Torn between loyalties? Not able to trust me with the simplest of things?”

“I do trust-” he begins but she cuts him short.

“No, you don't!” she shouts, loud enough for those in the anti-chambers to hear. “I am not Eddis, Eugenides. You share so little of yourself; so little of your plans. So little that I often wonder what is so awful that you cannot tell me.” She looks away. So does he. “I often wonder if you remember that I'm not only your queen but your wife, and you cannot simply be my thief. Do you understand?”

There is a long suffering silence, which neither of them knows how to fill. Eugenides walks closer leaning his elbow against the chimney stones, a strange light awash on his face. “I swore an oath...” he begins, and she looks up to study his eyes. “When I became the Thief, I swore an oath and took a service that only one person alive knows about... And that's me.” He locks his gaze with hers, and she can see his profile shadowed in the wall, dark and deep. “Sworn never to tell. Sworn never to break. A secret so steeped in tradition and fear that I couldn't...” His voice breaks, and he lightly taps his fingers against the wall, full of frantic energy. “Can't hope to be separated from it. That's who I am. That's what I know...”

She has nothing to say to that.

“I will fight for you. You must know that.” he says, brushing imaginary dirt from his sleeve.

She takes the challenge. “But what will you fight for me as? That's what I need to know.”

He shakes his head, speaking slowly, “Everything and nothing. Anything you may need.”

“I want you to be my king and my husband... And I need to know that I am your wife and not just someone you serve... However and whenever you see fit.” She swallows. “I need to know that you trust me...” Her gaze falls to his cuffed wrist, and she shakes her head. “Or at the very least... could come to trust me.”

It's a long moment before either speaks. He shatters the quiet with a mild sigh. “You want to know the rest of the plan, then? Well... are you certain you can handle it?” His expression is bright now, a challenge disguised as an offering.

She knows the answer to that. “I handle you, don't I?”

“Not all the time.”

She objects. “You're a liar.”

He smirks “I know.”

 

 **#10:[Bound](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rod7yk002Sc) by Suzanne Vega - extra special bonus fic! (Sophos/Helen)  
**

It was a quiet love, theirs. No red ink bleeding down the walls, no swords smashed against shields, and no hidden looks or complex dances of lies and intrigue. Dreams of libraries, crocked noses, childhood fancies, apricots ripe on the tree, and bunnies.

She smiled.

The tokens of their love were scattered throughout the extremes of their lives. Small, pretty childhood wishes held close to the hearts of ones so damaged by the duty of their birth and the circumstances of their trials.

She lightly touches the raise on her poorly healed nose.

It was an easy love. One of convenience, political power, _and_ desire. It was all too precious, some might say. A fairytale soon to be shattered by the lives they must lead outside the books read by the fire.

 _Reality..._

She took his hand over the altar of Hephestia. Their eyes curved in a secret smile.

 _Bound._

Not by ceremony or by law, but by love. Bounds of their own making. Names written on the hearts of time, throne, and deity.

They had the same dream.

They _always_ have. And now it was true.


End file.
